Poor unfortunate soul
by Inkpot satsuma
Summary: Desperate to keep Dean safe, Castiel sells his wings to Crowley in a deal. With three weeks to deliver what Crowley needs or lose his wings forever, he tries to keep the deal secret from Dean and Sam, but will inevitably need their help. As to the Winchesters, they do their best to take care of the flightless angel. Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

**I got the idea watching - surprise, surprise - _The Little Mermaid_ yet again. Though it of course has nothing in common with the story, apart from the deal bit. Because Cas is the type that would sell an integral part of himself just to save Dean, and then try to keep it from everybody and meander in a web of lies and secrets to keep it covered. Awww!**

**I have no idea in what timeline this is set up, bear with me. Somewhere in the Apocalypse story arc, duh.**

**I hope you enjoy it, I love reviews :D**

* * *

Within the space of time that humans would call milliseconds, Castiel feels the air thicken, shift to accommodate the arriving presence of the demon. He can feel the energy antagonistic to his own materialise behind his back, but he does not turn to acknowledge the King of Hell.

"I hear word that you're looking for me, darlin'," Crowley's voice echoes in a soft rasp in the dark space of the sealed mausoleum that Castiel has chosen as a venue – a prominent saint's bones are deposited here, providing an unpleasant distraction for the demon.

"Thank you for coming," Castiel replies levelly, still not turning around, steadily communicating to Crowley that he will be in charge of this meeting.

Seeming to sense it, Crowley walks lazily around Castiel and faces him, a hint of ironic smile playing around his lips, but not reaching his watchful eyes.

"Well – couldn't resist your pretty face when you asked so nicely," the demon shrugs casually, lifting a suddenly conjured glass of whisky to his mouth. "Shackleton, hundred year old. Wanna sip?" he offers.

Castiel remains silent in response to the irrelevant proposition. Crowley purses his lips.

"I see. Straight to business. Alright, what is it you want from me?"

"I wish to make a deal with you," Castiel centres on the core of the issue, not willing to squander time – no matter how relative a concept it is for him.

"A deal? Fancy that," Crowley chuckles and lifts the glass again. "Alright, times are strange. I'm listening."

"I know about the spell."

"What spell?" Crowley attempts to play a fool, but Castiel has no time nor patience for it.

"The spell to shatter Michael's Sword, Crowley," he growls out. "Destroy Michael's ultimate weapon. His intended vessel. You are in possession of that spell, and cannot utilise it because you need to decipher the meaning of a few angelic symbols, of which you have no knowledge. I would like you to relinquish that spell to me, as well as relinquish any ability to use it or what you have learned from it."

Crowley's eyebrows climb up his forehead, his eyes remaining unimpressed.

"That's a big favour you're asking, wonder boy. I can't wait to hear what you're willing to offer instead," he shrugs, swinging forth a little in amusement.

"Something that will be equally worthy to you, but will not collide with my… _interests_," Castiel replies.

"I don't think you got anything to match that. I mean – Dean-o dies irrevocably, there's no duel. No Apocalypse, no Lucifer bashing my head in. And with that spell I can destroy any meatsuit he decides to wear."

"I am aware of that," Castiel sighs, perhaps a little tersely – but he truly does not enjoy hearing Crowley speak of Dean's death and destruction. "Which is why my offer is more palatable to you, I believe. I can deliver to you a seal that will protect you from Lucifer – only you."

Crowley stays still, hand halting midway its journey to deliver the glass to his mouth again, and he beholds Castiel with a long, probing look. Castiel waits, giving Crowley time to process the offer and ponder on its validity and truthfulness.

"Really?" there is a clearly detectable tune of interest in the demon's voice, thus Castiel elaborates.

"The spell does not guarantee your safety from Lucifer – it only guarantees the delay of the Apocalypse. But the seal I am willing to give you, will protect you specifically from what you want to escape – Lucifer."

"Hmm," Crowley hums contemplatively and with intrigue, taking a sip of his whisky. "That _does_ sound like a good deal. Didn't think you had it in you, darlin'."

"Is that a yes?" Castiel doesn't care about anything – about Crowley's survival, ideas and sense of humour. All that matters is Dean's safety, that's what he is here for, and what he is ready to exchange for anything.

Crowley shrugs almost cheerily.

"I suppose so."

"I will need time to uncover the seal. I propose three weeks. And I also demand you call off any attacks on Dean and Sam you have planned."

"Oh, come-come, Cassy, this is two favours you're asking in exchange for one. And I need some sort of guarantee, don't I? To make sure you don't skip on me when I give you the spell."

Castiel narrows his eyes.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I want something more than just the seal. I don't do two-for-one deals. And what you're asking, it's a pain in me heart – figuratively speaking, of course," the King of Hell flashes a small grin.

"You cannot have my grace, Crowley," Castiel growls. "It would kill you."

Crowley grins.

"Love it how the only thing stopping you from selling out your grace for your boyfriend is a technical problem. And I know, I wasn't thinking grace. Something else, as a guarantee that you will bring me the seal… shall we say – your wings?"

"My wings?" Castiel bristles. He can feel the incorporeal feathers rise slightly in wariness at the suggestion.

"Come on, I know it's doable. I get your wings and keep my hands to myself, no funny business… unless you don't come back with the seal. Then they're mine forever. And let me tell you, angel-boy, that's _investment_. Your feathers are worth a lot on the market."

Castiel narrows his eyes as now he is the one scanning Crowley carefully as he ponders on the offer. His wings… Crowley is right, the deal he's offered is a possibility, even of precedence, even if only once, maybe twice at the absolute most. But his wings are the most intimate and powerful aspect of his form, of his existence as an angel. While their temporary loss will not affect him physically too much, he is unsure how his functioning would continue mentally.

But if he doesn't agree, it is only a question of time – and relatively small amounts of it – before Crowley gains sufficient knowledge on the spell to operate it… and to destroy Dean. Irreversibly.

"Tick-tock, angel."

He looks up at Crowley once more, silent for a few moments longer, until at last, slowly, he nods.

"Great, we have ourselves a deal," Crowley throws back the remainder of the liquid in his glass.

"Shall I kiss you then?" Castiel almost smirks, and Crowley chuckles.

"Nice try, angel, I'm not stupid. I mean, no offence, you've got one kissable set of lips on you, but I'd rather not get turned into crisp. I'll leave the smooching to Dean – we'll do it the other way."

A scroll appears in his hand, while in his other he wields a phoenix feather. Crowley passes them to Castiel who opens the parchment scroll, carefully reading through the well formulated contents that acknowledges the demands of both parties without a loophole.

"In your blood, please."

Castiel holds the feather in his hand as the scroll hovers in the air before him, and hesitates. He thinks about his wings, about the forthcoming pain – he can stand it, but it is the hindrance of mobility he considers, as well as the necessary lies he will have to spin and weave carefully for the Winchesters, keep the truth from them… But he thinks of Dean, his precious soul, the life he'd rebuilt atom by atom from cinder in Hell, his green eyes and righteous heart…

Gritting his teeth, Castiel jabs the writing end of the feather-pen into his forearm, dipping it in his blood, and in sharp, determined moves, signs his name in Enochian on the scroll.

Crowley grins, the contract and pen disappearing.

"Three weeks," he says, flipping a small, ancient, metal disc towards Castiel who catches it in the air – the spell of shattering Michael's Sword.

Castiel clenches his jaws, trying to steady the sickeningly quick beat of his heart as Crowley reaches forward, behind his back…

A powerful, all-encompassing pain rips through his back, exploding from between his vessel's shoulder blades as the wings are pried forcefully out into the physical realm and out of his flesh. The agony hits him into a daze, clouding his eyes with blackness, and he cries out in absolute pain, his throat rippling with the raw scream. He feels his spine crack and twist as the wings pull away, slow, snapping and breaking, splitting his body deep within, and he keeps on screaming as he never before did in his entire life.

With the last morsel of connection between his body and his wings, he beats them, the last strands of muscle, bone and tendon obeying his desperate command, and he soars, breaking away, wingless…

Falling.

* * *

There's nothing on the few lousy channels that actually receive anything else than static, and Dean grumbles, clicking the remote again. He settles for the _Star Trek_ original series rerun, leaning back against the headboard of the bed, and reaches for another fry in his takeout meal. Huh, season two, if he's not mistaken, he thinks as he eyes the action on the screen. _Star Trek_ never gets old. Damn, he wishes Cas was here – about time the nerdy angel learned some pop culture references.

And it's been four days since they last saw him. Not that Dean's been counting days or anything, of course. It's just that… well, yeah, it's just that the angel could show his face every now and then to let them know if he was freaking _alive_. They're friends, right? Friends keep in touch.

On the other bed Sam sighs, laptop balanced on his legs as he scours the web in search for clues for the hunt they're starting on. Doesn't look good, whatever's pestering the locals is elusive and leaves few clues, all of which fit a few creatures. So they need to dig deeper (code for: Sam needs to dig deeper while Dean waits for shit to get more interesting).

He goes back to watching the show. Oh, man, he can just hear Cas commenting on the plot, Mr Spock's logic and asking questions. Dean catches himself smiling as he imagines watching the show and explaining things to Cas, schooling him on the references and _Star Trek_ fun facts. Yeah, he wishes Cas would come back, especially since they don't ever really get to hang out without imminent mortal threat. There was the time they worked together, Cas failing as an FBI agent and prospective whorehouse customer, and it was really fun, but he's thinking something less-

A rapid roar of air and deafening crash burst into his thoughts, cutting them off, as he and Sam flail on the beds, scrambling for weapons, the floor of the crappy motel room shaking on impact as something large lands near the TV…

"_Cas_?!" Dean's eyes bulge out at the sight of the familiar trench coat.

"Cas, are you OK?" Sam cries out, startled.

No, he does not look OK., Dean thinks angrily and with a cold sense of gripping panic sliding down his throat and pooling in his stomach. Castiel is huddled on the floor, on his knees, supporting himself with his hands, his posture crumpled and he seems in pain, even if Dean can't see his face which is obscured from view by Castiel's head tilted down. When he looks up, Dean feels the coldness in his stomach churn – he's been in enough pain in his life to recognise the look in Castiel's impossible blue eyes.

"Hello, Dean… Sam…" his voice is deep and gravelly as always, but more raspy, as if worn and exhausted. There's a daze in his eyes, as if he's not fully connecting.

"Cas…" Dean whispers, because somehow he can't get his vocal chords to work, and he clears his throat. "Cas, what… what's up, man?" he asks with concern, putting away the gun and slowly walking over to the angel.

"I, uh…" Castiel starts, and then carefully tries to get up on his legs.

As he does, he suddenly, inexplicably sways forward, as if someone had shoved him and he'd lost his balance, landing once more on his knees and hands. Dean gapes as Castiel grits his teeth and attempts to get up again, this time the invisible force swaying him backwards and making him crash back against a closet and slide down onto the floor.

"Cas!" Sam cries out in panic.

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean demands, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The angel seems not to hear either of them as he determinedly sets his jaw and, pushing back against the closet for stability, he attempts to stand again. He does, pressed almost fearfully against the wood, and bravely attempts a step forward, but only ends up swaying forth again, mysteriously unable to keep his balance. He makes another attempt, hands extended in readiness to brace himself, but he falls back, and Dean rushes to catch him.

"Cas! Cas, what's going on?" he asks, holding the angel by the arms from behind, supporting his weight.

"I'm…"

"God help me, if you say 'fine', I will kick your ass!" Dean growls in Castiel's ear as he pushes against him to get him more vertical, and leads him over to his bed to sit him down.

It takes just four steps, but even with Dean's support, Castiel makes them hesitantly, wobbling slightly in Dean's grip, like… like a kid trying to walk a straight line on the kerbstone and keep his balance.

As soon as they're seated, Sammy parks his ass on the bed as well, thus putting Cas between himself and Dean. Cas seems stabile now, but for whatever reason Dean feels reluctant to completely let go of him, keeping one hand on the angel's shoulder.

"Cas?" he asks, a little more quietly now that Cas isn't thrashing around the carpet. "Cas, what happened to you?"

"I am… I _am_ fine, Dean, mostly," Castiel replies with a frown, looking down on his hands. "It is only my wings. I… it is a condition, something that could loosely be translated as inflammation of the wings. A form of… sickness. I will be fine, once it has ran its course."

"So… why can't you stand?" Sammy asks in his soothing, concerned let-me-help-you-you-poor-unfortunate-soul voice that makes Dean roll his eyes.

Castiel sighs, his frown hardening as he twirls his thumbs for a moment.

"It is temporary. Because of the condition, my wings are, in effect – uh, _gone_, in a way. To put it in simplest terms. And their lack has affected my equilibrium. But I will regain my balance soon, it is merely the matter of adjustment," he at last looks up, making eye contact with Dean.

"What the hell does it mean, what's happening to you, Cas?" Dean asks around a ball of something cold and hard that seems to have lodged itself in his throat.

"It is… rare, but happens. I assure you, Dean, my grace is intact otherwise – I still don't require food or sleep, I have my blade, I can heal myself and others. Nothing has changed, except for my lost ability of flight. Temporarily lost."

"Temporarily," Dean repeats with pressure. Castiel nods.

"Yes, Dean. I just have to wait for the illness to pass. It should be over in about three weeks."

"So what, there's nothing we can do to help?" Sam asks, frowning at the prospect.

"No. I will take care of myself."

Dean lets out a mirthless laugh – and maybe, just maybe, he feels a tug of warmth in his heart. Such a Castiel thing to say…

"Oh, man, Cas, how are you gonna do that? You can't fly. You're staying with us."

"Dean-"

"Ah-ah. You're staying, we'll keep an eye on you. Yes, you _are_," he adds, seeing Cas take in a breath to protest. "It's not like you can go anywhere," he adds with a smirk.

Sam shoots him a bitchface that applauds his tact, but Castiel doesn't seem bothered.

"Thank you, Dean," he says warmly, and for the first time since he's arrived, there is full calmness and focus in his brilliantly blue eyes. Dean smiles back slightly.

Beside him, Sam shifts on the bed and clears his throat, causing Dean to break away from Castiel's gaze.

"Sam, find out if some other hunters can take care of this case," he says. "I'm gonna call Bobby to tell him we're coming."

* * *

**I don't know when the next chapter will be up, I'm focusing on my other Destiel story, _The Mechanics of the Sky_ (please read it, no subliminal message, just big fat self-advertisement XD), this idea just popped into my head, and I needed to write the first chapter pronto :D But I hope to update someime soon :)**

**Review! I relish reviews :D Seriously, they're like the petrol in a story's car :)**

**P.S. 8x17 anyone? "I need you"! He said "I need you"! *squeal* And the connection is broken, I mean talk about the power of love! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Right, new chapter :) I haven't been updating anything lately, because I've been down with flu and turned into a slobbering vegetable for roughly a week.**

**I hope you like it :) Reviews are loved :D**

* * *

Dean wakes up with sun falling on his face, and he squints, blinking and lifting a sleep-numb hand to shield his eyes while his brain tries to catch up with the situation. Amidst the drowsiness and vague need to go to the bathroom there is a creeping sense of dread, something from yesterday gnawing at him and which he should be freaking out about…

Cas!

The evening comes rushing back, squeezing the breath out of his chest as he remembers the swaying, falling angel, _wingless_, unable to keep his balance. He sits up, blurring away a brief memory about holding Castiel in his arms and supporting him, and he scans the room wildly with his eyes, in search for the angel.

And he encounters cosmic, bottomless blue.

Castiel is by the table, walking around it in steady circles like a goldfish in a bowl, one hand brushing against the top for support, and he almost smiles at Dean before he picks up his monotonous task. He's practising, Dean realises, and with relief notes that the angel's balance is incomparably better than yesterday evening.

He releases a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, and he almost chuckles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It's such a _Cas_ thing – his balance is off, so he wastes no time, gets right to learning to cope, adjusting himself and overcoming an obstacle. For some weird-ass reason, it's almost endearing. Especially when he imagines the angel spending the night by patiently circling the table over and over again.

"Hey…" Dean murmurs, looking up at Cas again, his heart rate settling down after the peak it skyrocketed to in shock moments ago. "You're better?" he half-states, half-asks, not really sure how to go about it.

"Yes, I am regaining my balance at a satisfactory pace," Castiel confirms, slowing down a little, and looks at the table, as if there was something interesting on it. "I… can walk fairly well now. But I will need to keep practising… and to retrain myself to fight with the altered equilibrium. I cannot be rendered defenceless by a simple lack of wings."

"Simple lack of wings, _jeez_…" Dean breathes out in disbelief, rolling out of the bed. "Give yourself some time, man."

There is this hard gleam in Castiel's eyes, a steely determination.

"I cannot allow myself to be endangered, or to pose a risk on you and Sam, Dean," he replies in a rough voice that leaves no room to broach an argument. "My… illness won't last forever, but three weeks is plenty of time for something to endanger you and your brother because you are committed to looking after a wingless angel. I want to minimize the risks."

"OK., OK.," Dean says softly, raising his hands in an appeasing manner. "We'll talk about this later, yeah? Now, look… do we need to know anything about that illness? Is it gonna do anything else to you?"

Castiel shakes his head, eyes flicking down to the table again, pensive frown settling on his features in a familiar way.

"No," he replies almost dully. "It is a condition of the wings, so in order to prevent the spread, I have temporarily _lost_ them. I cannot explain in human terms," he growls suddenly in mild irritation. "I will _have_ my wings back," he finishes, with a strange sort of force in his voice, as if he was determined to make that statement true.

It makes Dean's stomach feel a little uneasy, but he brushes it away.

"OK., so uh… do you need anything?" he asks. "Like, pills?"

And there's the head tilt.

"I do not require any medication, let alone human-made."

Right. Well, that was a pretty dumb thing to ask anyway.

"Yeah, but… you tell me if you think of anything we can do, right? I mean, we're going to Bobby's, and we're just gonna tuck you in and wait out the three weeks, but still – if you can get better quicker, let us know."

There's something akin almost to alarm that passes through Castiel's eyes, as though he had heard something signalling trouble, and he frowns. Dean realises how well-versed he's become in 'Cas expressions' when he catches the slight narrowing of eyes and a brief sideways flick of the blue gaze, and knows it means the angel is running his thoughts at an angel light-speed.

"I wish to resume activities as soon as I readjust myself to my current balance completely," he says. "I have work to do," he proclaims in that 'shady Vulcan politician' tone, and Dean knows he's not gonna wrench anything more than vagueness from him for now.

"Okay," Dean runs a hand through his hair, and decides it's time to hit the bathroom and change his clothes.

As he picks out the jeans and T-shirt, Cas resumes walking around the table at a faster pace now, and Dean frowns at the small damper of disappointment that comes over him at Castiel's disagreement to staying at Bobby's the three whole weeks. Truth be told, Dean kinda likes the idea of housing the angel, having him in one place all the time, not flying off, just hanging out and possibly helping him get better. And, naturally, he feels like a total dick for wanting that, for finding something good in what is probably a really distressing situation for Cas. He tries to imagine what equivalent in his own anatomy could pass for wings, to make the loss just as affecting but not completely disabling, and he figures voice or eyesight or something like that. The idea makes him shudder with a creepy feeling in his gut, and he all the more firmly resolves to help Cas out, not keep him tucked up in bed and playing doctor if the angel doesn't want it.

Dean is a pathological caregiver, and he knows it. Of course, not to anybody, in fact most of humanity can go screw itself, he's already doing enough by killing off the monsters. But the people he cares about, he gets really – uh, protective of. Sammy, for instance. And Cas, too, even though he doesn't know when exactly that happened, but Castiel is now on the same spot on his caring list as Sammy and Bobby. Which, also, would be all of that list.

It's a weird compulsion to look after his loved ones to the extreme, and he knows it comes from the shitty fact that most of his loved ones, he has lost. Some irreversibly and some multiply, and he honestly can't say which is worse. No, irreversibly is worse. But only by a nose.

On his way to the bathroom he picks up the pillow from his bed and throws it at Sam as a wakeup call, and casts one more glance at Cas over his shoulder. The angel is still lingering by the table, and this time he's spinning in slow circles, hands outstretched in readiness to brace himself. He looks idiotic, but his balance seems fairly OK., without a crash looming in near future, so Dean goes ahead and gets into the bathroom.

The problems come back when it's time to leave, and having walked down the corridor, they reach the stairs, two flights of which separate them from checking out at the front desk and going out to the parking lot. At the top of the stairs Castiel stops, freezing, suddenly looking shut off, and simply stares down the flight, jaws clenched and shoulders squared stiffly.

Oh, shit…

Dean bites his lip, exchanging a worried look with Sam, but his brother doesn't come up with anything useful. Dean's mind races as he tries to figure out the way to go about this one… well, worst-worst-case scenario he supposes he'll have to carry Cas down the stairs, but he'd very much prefer to avoid that. He supposes there is one option that's worth a shot, but for some reason he feels weird doing that with Sam so close. He slips his bag off his shoulder and hands it over to Sam.

"You go down first," he mumbles as Sam takes the bag from him, apparently too puzzled to disobey.

"What? Why?"

"So that he has something to land on in case he falls down," Dean rolls his eyes. "Just go, would ya? Check us out at the reception, we'll catch up in the Impala."

"Okay…" Sam's voice is pure dubiousness, but thankfully he complies and heads down the stairs.

Dean breathes in and out, trying to gain a calm and hopefully also calming demeanour, and walks down the first step, turning around to face Cas. The poor guy is still looking down the potential line of fall, and Dean's been drunk enough times to know how hard it is to keep your balance on the stairs. And going up is easier, at least you can do it on all fours if you don't care much about dignity.

"Hey," he says softly, calling the attention of Castiel's blue eyes that trustingly meet his own. Good, that's a start, he thinks, and ignores the strange warm feeling he gets at the trusting gaze, because he's got a more important task ahead. "Come on," he holds out an open hand, keeping Castiel's eyes anchored with his own. "A step at a time."

Castiel hesitates, eyes flicking to Dean's outstretched hand and up to his face again, and he lingers, lips parted slightly open.

"You'll be fine," Dean says calmly.

The cosmic blue eyes look deep in his own, and there is a light of change, something Dean cannot name and which seems to speak from within Castiel as slowly but unwaveringly the angel places his hand in Dean's own. Dean curls his fingers around Castiel's slim but strong wrist, feeling the warm skin, and he nods, taking one step backwards and down, without looking away from Castiel's eyes. Castiel follows in sync, taking one step forward and down.

Slowly, Dean retreats again, his foot finding support below without navigation, and he doesn't even think about looking back to check his steep path. Castiel doesn't look down either, his eyes never once leaving Dean's, and the air seems to shift around the two of them, as if there was an infinite space drifting through the air. Castiel has that effect on a room sometimes, making it seem bigger and smaller at the same time, filling it with peace that holds the potential of a storm.

But there is no potential now, just the two of them, the steady warmth of their locked hands, and the breath ghosting over Dean's parted lips as he looks into the brightness in Castiel's eyes. He pulls gently again, taking another step down, and he feels the smooth, harmonic pull correspond within the air around them, encompassing them both as Castiel follows.

At some point, Dean doesn't find another drop behind him, just solid floor, and the surprise makes him glance back to find they've reached ground level. Castiel's hand is warm in his, and suddenly he's very aware of every single square millimetre of skin that is touched by the angel, and he pulls his hand back a little jerkily, releasing the hold. He can feel a flush creeping up his neck, because he just walked down two flights of stairs _holding hands_ with Cas and apparently didn't even notice doing most of that. He clears his throat, eyes flicking to the floor as he moves back to get some personal space, because he suddenly needs it as he can feel some sort of freaky pull towards the angel, as if they were still continuing the walk down the stairs. It's strong but benign, and it scares the hell out of him, because it feels _natural_, and he needs to get away from this pull.

"You okay?" he asks gruffly, out the corner of his eye seeing that the girl at the counter gives them a weird look.

Castiel nods, his eyes still bright and lingering in that strange infinity state that they both got caught up in a moment ago.

"I'm fine, Dean. Thank you," the angel adds with a small, grateful nod of head.

Dean clears his throat again.

"Yeah, okay, good. Come on," he turns around and strides across the shoddy reception, needing to get out, because for some reason he feels like he needs much more air than his lungs can possibly contain.

His hand tingles, a warm and bright sensation, as if he was holding it out to catch the sun.

* * *

Castiel doesn't like lying. And he does his best to avoid it.

He may, on occasions, allow others to draw certain untrue conclusions and do not correct them, but he doesn't outwardly lie. _Especially_ not to Dean and Sam. _Especially_ not to Dean.

Now, having pawned his wings with Crowley, he sits in the backseat of the Impala, repaying Dean and Sam for their care with lies. He lies that he is merely afflicted with an illness that he had made up, he lies that he is feeling fine, and he lies that he will do his best to remain with them for the duration of his predicament. Lies, all of them, roll off his tongue with smoothness and perfect credibility, and he carefully masks the bitter aftertaste they seem to be leaving on the roof of his mouth.

He feels wretched and fallen to deceive his friends and the only true family by heart that he has. And he will have to lie more, in order to coax the Winchesters into taking him to where he knows the seal to be located, lie to them to hide the nature of the object he means to retrieve, and lie to them to avoid confronting them with Crowley as he delivers.

He has to lie to them, because they would attempt to seek revenge on Crowley, and he especially has to lie to Dean, because he would be angry if he found out what Castiel had done. He would not understand that the sacrifice is a small speck of insignificance in comparison to the value of keeping him safe, he does not understand that Castiel cares for him more than for anything else, that he is worth _every_ sacrifice, and that he has been so ever since Castiel had first laid his hand upon him in the raging depths of Hell.

Dean persists not to see his value, his righteousness and his worth, and Castiel will never be dissuaded from reminding him of them. But he does not wish to add to Dean's guilt and anger which he knows the truth would do. Dean would be furious and resentful, and Castiel does not wish to have to deal with that, especially not in his current state.

Tentatively, he rolls his shoulders a little, feeling the shoulder blades shift beneath his skin, and an unpleasant sensation of void and incompleteness proceeds as he cannot feel his wings. Though they do not assume corporeal form when he inhabits a vessel (though he has come to think of this body as his own since Jimmy's soul had passed on to Heaven with his latest demise and resurrection), but all the same he can feel their presence with his grace, since they are a part of him.

But now – nothing. A disturbing, confusing sense of _lacking_. It isn't pain anymore, but the hollowness of the dull sensation is occasionally making him feel somewhat sick when he focuses on it just a bit too much. And it is worse even than the agonising, back-splitting pain that he'd felt when Crowley wrenched his wings out of his back and afterwards. The pain and ache was at least a form of presence, what he feels now is _nothing_.

Still, he will adjust. It's a change – hopefully of a temporary nature – and he will learn to cope with it so as not to let it hinder his existence. Especially since he must consider the possibility of spending the rest of his life without his wings, in case of a mishap. It's a remote possibility, but one nonetheless, and he would be a fool to ignore it in favour of unjustified optimism. And while the prospect of remaining wingless forever is unpleasant and unwanted, he will welcome it with serenity if it comes to it – the knowledge that it had secured Dean's safety is more than a redeeming quality for his own manageable discomfort.

He looks at the back of Dean's head as the hunter focuses on the road ahead, and he reaches out with his grace, embracing Dean with it, wrapping his very essence around his charge, enclosing him in what he wishes would be a permanent protection. It feels like holding Dean close, and Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, allowing the warm feeling to pulse soothingly through his grace as he stretches the moment in his perception of time.

He will do his best to deliver on his deal with Crowley though. And that means lying and deceiving Dean, and Sam as well.

A heavy sigh escapes his chest before he realises it lies there, and he feels surprised at the shift in his own inner, emotional sensations that it causes. As if something had rearranged itself, though without any altering outcome for his emotional state.

"Cas, you OK?" Sam enquires with concern, peering back at him over his shoulder, and Castiel glances at the younger Winchester. He definitely is fond of Sam, is attached to him and determined to protect him, cares for him fiercely, but for some reason the necessity of lying to him is slightly less daunting than lying to Dean. Slightly, but still.

"I'm fine," he placates. "I'm merely still adjusting. I should be fully functional within days."

He manages not to outward lie – again he lets slightly incorrect conclusions to be drawn from his words while he omits the core of his problem.

"Yeah, and until you get there, you're not leaving our sight, capiche?" Dean looks up to the rear view mirror, meeting Castiel's eyes in the reflective surface, and Castiel nods solemnly. He feels pleased and warm with the fact that Dean wishes and demands to keep him in close proximity at all times, and he gives Dean a fond look. "Good," Dean grunts, appeased. "We're gonna be staying at Bobby's till you're back on your wings."

This… is not good.

"Dean…" Castiel speaks with a protest and a mild hint of warning, but as it so often happens, Dean does not listen.

"Hey, it's gonna be fine. If you're doing really good, we can go out and do stuff."

"I have told you, Dean, I have work to do, and you seemed understanding of that," Castiel reminds him.

Dean bites on his lip and frowns, looking at the road once more. He's focused, his green eyes gaining a distant but grounded look.

"First let's get you back in working order, OK?" he asks, and an attempt at a truce and compromise tugs at his voice, wrenching Castiel's heart with pain of having to nod an agreement he does not intend to keep. Dean's eyes brighten up, and Castiel looks away, peering out the window by his side, unable to see Dean's spirits lifted by his lie.

He knows Sam is looking at him with concern, but he ignores it, and soon he senses his friend turning away.

Time passes as he gazes out the window, surveying the monotonous landscape the Impala treads through. The stretch of highway is straight and empty, Dean pressing on the gas pedal to establish what both brothers would consider high speed, but for Castiel the pace is slow and lingering. The sluggishness of automobile travels never bothered him, or rather it never bothered him when Dean was holding the steering wheel, but it did not please him either. He is indifferent in his attitude to the speeding achievements of humanity, since they aren't relevant to him.

Presently, when no quicker alternative is presented to him, he for the first time feels the actual discomfort of being condemned for a slow travel. The Impala is a vehicle he is fond of, one that houses numerous memories, some of which are painful and others relieving with joy, and he treasures both emotions, as well as the array of others between them, equally. He associates the car with Dean and Sam, but Dean most of all, and with a new quality to himself as well – he associates it with choices, Free Will and a sense of liberation, with being Castiel instead of strictly and only an angel of the Lord. The car holds an important emotional and memory value for him, but presently it – for the very first time – feels constraining.

It is the fact that, in his current predicament, this car is the fastest medium of travel available to him, and that knowledge sparks a reaction of limitation. He closes his eyes and reaches with his grace, once more brushing over Dean, because the sensation of fulfilment he derives from it is most pacifying, and then he reaches outward, feeling the vast, open space surrounding the car and the road. It helps to nullify the sense of constriction.

But even cradling Dean in the embrace of his grace does not quell the clench in his heart whenever he thinks of lying.

* * *

"There you idjits are," Bobby's greeting is charming and loving as ever, but the fact that he's hanging around the porch as they pull up, tells Dean that he was slightly worried.

"Yeah, sorry, Bobby, we got here as fast as we could, but there was an accident on the road and we had to bypass," Dean sighs, stretching as he shuts the door of the Impala, Sam also looking relieved to finally straighten out his freakishly tall body.

Dean glances over his shoulder as Cas gets out of the backseat and sways a little as he does so, a look of frustration swiftly flashing across his face, and he slams the door shut perhaps just a little more forcefully than necessary. Still, he's holding back, because what with angel strength and all, he could have done a lot worse.

"So how's he doin'?" Bobby asks, nodding towards Cas who approaches them, mask back in place over his features.

"He _says_ he's fine," Dean replies, casting a pointed look at Castiel who responds by narrowing his eyes and pinning him down with a motionless stare for a long moment. "Basically what I told you over the phone – he got his wings plucked," Dean explains, and Cas jerks beside him, as if a violent shudder had passed through him for a second. "What was it you called it?"

"Inflammation of the wings," there is pressure in Castiel's gravelly voice, his bottomless blue eyes hardening slightly. "As Dean has said, I am – essentially – rendered wingless for the time being. About three weeks, I should say."

"Yeah, so we were hoping we could stay here," Dean looks at Bobby – the man had already agreed, but Dean still feels like he should ask. Cause housing an injured angel for three weeks minimum isn't exactly a small favour.

"So my house's gonna be angel infirmary now?" Bobby grumbles, but Dean smiles a little, because he can see the sparks in his eyes, and he knows Bobby is complaining just because he can, not because he's unwilling.

"If it wouldn't inconvenience you too much, I would be obliged," Cas does that downright adorable earnest face, looking at Bobby solemnly and with light-filled eyes, and damn, no one could refuse anything when he looks like that, Dean thinks.

Bobby, obviously, can't.

"Sure, boy," he slaps a semi-affectionate hand on Castiel's shoulder, the angel knocked minimally out of balance, about which Bobby looks surprised, if not alarmed, for a moment. He's seen the dude take shots to the chest without flinching and block a hit without even looking, so that's probably a bit of a shocker now.

Satisfied, Dean shepherds Cas into the house. As Bobby heads in as well, Dean goes back to join Sam and carry the small luggage they own inside, and as he crosses the living room he can see Cas has already only slightly awkwardly settled himself on the sofa, watching the TV. After dumping his bag onto the bed he usually sleeps on when staying at Bobby's, he heads back down, Sam sprinting past him on the way to the bathroom, bundle of pyjamas clutched to his chest barging possessively in, and Dean rolls his eyes.

He finds Bobby in the kitchen, getting a beer, and with a grateful nod accepts one bottle. Flicking the cap off the neck against the edge of the countertop, he glances to make sure Cas is busy being in TV-land (he's watching QVC), and he catches Bobby's eyes.

"Well?" Bobby asks quietly, an eyebrow going up a little as he watches Dean carefully.

"Listen, he's vague," Dean shakes his head slowly. "Didn't say much and not gonna say anything more, I can tell you that. He says he's got this _inflammation of the wings_, like some illness, and it caused his wings to sort of vanish on him, so that the damage doesn't spread, and they'll be back in three weeks. So you know… look through some books? Just look up anything to do with wings, maybe there's something."

"What, you think he's not telling you everything?" Bobby frowns, peering at Dean attentively and with concern.

"He's an angel, Bobby, he never tells everything, it's like his job or personality trait," Dean rolls his eyes angrily. Why can't Cas ever let them help him when he needs it? It always just leads to shit getting worse. "So, you know, I wanna check things so it doesn't turn out he can freaking _keel over_ or something, and he's just not telling us."

"Three weeks is plenty of time, boy," Bobby's grumbling voice softens by just a hint, and Dean gives a jerking nod, appreciating what he knows Bobby will do. "If there's something, we'll find it."

Dean nods again, taking a swig of his beer, tilting the bottle up roughly, and he swallows, watching Cas in the living room. He seems pretty engrossed in whatever's happening on the screen, head tipped to side as he muses over something that's apparently perplexingly human, large blue eyes focused with earnest interest. It's a face Dean likes to see – it means Cas is hanging around for a while, not flying off to get into some celestial dangers and shit that he and Sam can't even begin to comprehend, and that things aren't so completely bad if he has the time to relax and feed his TV addiction.

Three weeks, Dean thinks, and he realises his life is really crappy when he gets a holiday attitude about the upcoming days, but he doesn't care. For three weeks Cas will stay, he won't fly off without warning, won't battle with that Raphael dickhead, won't arrive out of the blue only after countless ineffective prayers, looking worn, concerned and pushed to tiredness but refusing to budge. For three weeks – well, more like nineteen days now, but Dean's not counting – he'll stay with them and maybe learn to finally get some friggin rest.

Dean likes the idea.

And also, he feels like the world's biggest jerk because of it.

* * *

**There, I hope you enjoyed it :) I wrote most of it before I got down with the flu, but I've started the third chapter already sick, so I don't know how lucid _that's_ gonna be XD**

**Anyway, let me know what you think, I love reviews :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**I wrote most of this chapter when delirious with fever and/or hopped up on flu medication, so I apologise if it's less than readable...**

**I hope you enjoy it nonetheless and please review :)**

* * *

The night had been a little rough, because it seemed like Cas had gotten bored of the TV, or – more likely – wanted to further practice his balance, and was roaming the house like a ghost. It was around three am that Dean was ripped from sleep by a loud and suspiciously girly shriek emitted by Sam in the hitherto silence. He had jumped out of his bed, blindly grabbing a gun and bursting out of the room only to crash with an equally alarmed Bobby, while Sam was writhing in guilt and embarrassment, trying to tell them both he was fine, Cas perched beside him, head tipped in confusion. As it turned out, a half-asleep Sammy navigating to the bathroom in the dead of night was a potentially high-strung Sammy, so when out the corner of his eye he spotted a silhouette moving in the dark, his instinct kicked in before his brain did. Exchanging a few insults, the company then parted ways to return to sleep, though Dean personally lay awake for a while longer, his ears somehow capturing every quiet whisper of a sound that Cas made downstairs

Still, when he wakes up, he feels damn well rested and in good mood – the huge calibre of the teasing ammunition he got on Sammy in the night is probably the cause of that, and he grins, getting out of bed. As he wanders down the stairs and through the small corridor, Sam doesn't appear in sight, which means he's either prudent or still asleep. But it's alright – he's gonna have to come out to feed sooner or later, and Dean can wait.

He looks around as he enters the living room, his eyes seeking out Cas on some instinctive impulse, and he locates him on the sofa. He's half-lying, slumped against one side, back propped on a pillow, one leg flexed and tucked under the knee of the other that brushes its foot on the floor. He looks comfortable, sunk into the sofa, his hair is more mussed than usually, and he's reading a book, and Dean slows down without realising as he watches him. He feels something warm pass in a glimmer through him, a sort of contented, _fulfilled_ feeling at the sight of Castiel so relaxed and _here_, present and looking so natural, as if he always hung around. Cas is clearly interested in what he's reading, though looks up from it, clear, penetrating blue eyes homing in on Dean's instantly. His gaze is so lucid and yet unreadable that Dean loses the rhythm of his steps as he walks, and almost stops to stare back.

"Hey," he utters, still somewhat asleep, and Castiel blinks in response.

"Hello, Dean."

"So, was your night alright?" Dean asks as he passes by the sofa, on his way to the kitchen.

"It was fine," there's a pause, and Dean waits for it as he approaches the fridge. "I did not mean to scare Sam," Castiel supplies half-guiltily, and Dean grins.

"Nah, not your fault he's got the nerves of a six year old girl," he chuckles. "What the hell were you doing anyway?"

"I decided to practice my ability to climb and descend stairs," Castiel elaborates, and as Dean glances at him, he can see him tentatively rolling his shoulders, a focused look on his face as he apparently thinks Dean isn't looking at him. Dean realises he's testing the ache in his back caused by his wings leaving, and he feels something sharp and cold twist in his stomach, just as whenever he sees Sammy hurt. "I can say I have grasped that perfectly by now," Cas reports, snapping Dean out of his thoughts.

"Huh? Oh – good," he says awkwardly, and turns around to pilfer the fridge for something edible.

"I think so too. Which is why I'd like to proceed with sparring soon, so I can hold my balance in combat, should it come to it."

Cradling a bowl with three eggs in it, Dean glances at Cas again, looking for a way to tell him that's not happening, but without actually using the phrase _'You're not fucking going anywhere, especially not into a fight'_.

"Is that so?" he opts for a safe move of beating around the bush, but allows some disapproval to seep into his voice as he turns around, placing the bowl on the countertop, taking the eggs out and beginning to crack them.

"Yes," he can hear Cas get up from the sofa and walk into the kitchen. "As I've said before, I need to do some work, and I can't be made vulnerable because I can't keep my balance in a fight."

"Hmm."

"Dean," he doesn't know how Cas does it, but sometimes there's this sort of pressure in his voice, it's not intrusive or forceful, but it's steady and even, like a neatly contained storm, and it always makes Dean eventually comply. Always.

"Yeah?" he uses the act of thinly slicing some bacon with a large knife as an excuse for not turning around to make eye contact. But somehow all of his body tells him very precisely that Cas is close, standing and calmly not budging an inch.

"I am not…" there is a brief, frustrated pause as Cas is searching for words, something that happens to him every now and then. Dean usually imagines that he's trying to translate some angelic concepts into words from a human language, and he thinks it must be a bit of a bitch. "I'm only flightless. My strength remains, so does my blade, my grace – everything. I only have problems with balance, and I want to eliminate them so I can carry on as usual."

"Hmm," Dean scrapes the bacon off the chopping board into the bowl with eggs, and goes about stirring the whole thing perhaps a little bit more violently than a recipe would suggest.

"Dean," again, there is this strength in Castiel's voice, and Dean turns to look at him. "I want to make it clear. I'm not asking your permission," Castiel's voice is laced with warning, a reminder of what he is, and Dean feels his jaws clench in instinctive defiance, steadying himself, even though there is not a trace of threat in the angel's tone. "I just want to explain and make things clear."

"Well, why the hell would you want that, since you don't give a shit about what I say anyway?!" Dean snaps, glaring, and Castiel frowns, but the brief flicker of frustrated anger in his eyes is drowning in something that looks like hurt. It surprises Dean to the point of his irritation actually dropping in an abrupt hitch.

"I _do_ care, Dean, which is why I'm trying to explain," there is an edge of impatience in Cas' voice now, and he frowns, looking down. "This is… not going well," he murmurs to himself, and Dean almost chuckles, because Cas' self-evaluation moments never cease to amuse him. "I'm trying to explain this to you, so you may have a clear view of the situation. And what I _am_ asking, is your… cooperation."

"Cooperation?" the word doesn't sound well.

"Help, if you will," Castiel elaborates with a small nod, large blue eyes looking into Dean's, and now Dean is listening. "I'm not asking your permission, I'm asking your _help_. I do not wish to… _sit around_ for three weeks, incapacitated. My condition isn't severe enough to debilitate me, and I don't want to _make it_ so."

Well, shit. Now Dean feels a little bit rotten, generously speaking. He knows where Cas is coming from, not wanting to be treated like an invalid when he isn't one, that would drive Dean crazy, too. But he just can't get over his instincts to keep Cas safe now that he's made vulnerable in a way, now that there is a chink in that bloody angelic, warrior-of-god armour he's figuratively got on. No, Dean just can't hop over that issue, it's too damn tall for him.

"Cas, I get ya, man, but I gotta disappoint you, we're not getting into any fights until you're OK again," he tries his absolutely best at some vaguely diplomatic answer. The result makes him somewhat proud, which is probably a sad commentary about his skills in the area.

"I realise that. But I'd rather not be a liability in case a fight comes to us," Castiel replies solemnly, his eyes staying earnestly on Dean's in a way that's almost uncomfortable, too raw and too pure for Dean to hold, but the weird connection and link in that gaze makes it impossible for him to look away.

"OK., I guess no harm in a little training, I won't be able to sit idle on my ass for three weeks either," he finally says, and there is a visible change coming over Castiel's form, an infinite amount of tension and almost battle-ready wariness falling away. "But we're _not_ going on any hunts," he restricts with pressure and finality, his persistence matching Cas', which usually sends them off into a fight.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas replies, because apparently he never tires of proving to Dean he doesn't know him at all and can't predict shit about what he's gonna do.

Cas walks away back to the sofa, as if something mutually satisfactory has just been resolved, and Dean rewinds the conversation in his head to go through it again, because he's fairly sure something just happened here that will later make him explode. Cas does that, he may be naïve, but he's most definitely _not_ stupid, he's actually freaking scary smart, like really intelligent, and he makes those little loopholes in agreements that later turn out to be fucking black holes, but by the time Dean picks up on it, it's too late.

It's not like he doesn't trust Cas. He does, probably to a scary level, but not when it comes to Cas looking after himself. The angel has this malfunction that makes him always plunge head-first into a suicidal idea if it saves someone else (usually Dean and Sam). Dean does realise it's hypocritical of him to bitch about that tendency in Cas when he's got the same condition (he sold his soul for Sammy, right?), but still…

He remembers the bowl in his hands, and he drops the fork he'd been using to stir into the sink, and brings out the frying pan. As he waits for the pan to heat up sufficiently on the gas burner, he looks at Cas through the door, watching him settle back into reading on the sofa. He notices the strange stiffness and tentative care with which the angel lays back against the pillows stacked before the armrest, and he feels something yank at his heartstrings with a sickening force.

Wingless…

* * *

As always when they stay at Bobby's, Dean and Sam chip in with the chores – some cleaning, general stuff, some work in the yard, and of course the supplies runs.

After finally catching Sam midway an attempt to sneak into the bathroom unnoticed and teasing the life out of him, Dean officially starts his day, changing into some day clothes and agreeing to drive to the nearest Wal-Mart to do some shopping for all of them. He's a bit reluctant, because supplies runs mean pushing through crowds of annoying people, fighting with Sam over what goes into the cart and what doesn't, standing in lines, having issues with damaged bar codes and a thousand other annoying things. But Bobby tells him to get his shit together and go, because he's doing research – with those words, Bobby lifts one book for Dean to see it's a work on angels and other biblical creatures, in some random-ass dead language Dean wouldn't stand a chance to decipher on his own, so he agrees. He appreciates what Bobby is doing.

And he's glad to know Bobby's not doing that just for him and Sam, he's doing that for Cas also. Over the time, he's gotten fond of the angel, and they have a weird but definitely friendly understanding going on. Dean is glad.

"Hey," he finds Cas still on the sofa, albeit with a different book in his hands this time. Briefly flicking through his memory, Dean thinks this might be the third book today that Cas is reading already. Angel reading speed, apparently.

Blue eyes look up, a mildly questioning expression filling them with light.

"Listen, me and Sammy are going out on a supply run, you wanna join in?" Dean asks, checking his jacket pocket for the Impala keys.

Castiel looks like he's thinking, pondering on the question.

"C'mon, you can't sit cooped up here all day," Dean coaxes, tapping his hands on the backrest of the sofa, looking down at Cas.

"If you think it's a good idea…" the angel finally says hesitantly, and Dean grins.

"Yeah, it's a friggin great idea. Come on," he taps the sofa again and circles it to head out of the room. "Sammy!" he hollers hurryingly in the general direction of the stairs. "You never been to a Wal-Mart or anything, right?" he asks quieter, turning to face Castiel who is already following him to the door.

"No."

"Then it should be fun. Think of it as learning experience or something."

"…Okay."

Sammy finally dawdles down the stairs and they head out, Dean pocketing the long scrap of paper with Bobby's list of demands, completed with his and Sammy's own needs. As usual, the list contains large amounts of salt, lighters, bullets and painkillers, the latter as high in strength as non-prescription stuff can get. They have some industrial strength pills, mostly stolen from hospital supply rooms, but they use them as rarely as possible, because they aren't the easiest to get.

Dean rolls down the window, enjoying the strong wind blowing into the car as they rush down the road, and Sammy's idiotically long hair flops about in the breeze. He glances at Cas through the rear view mirror, and he sees that a lot of the air reaches the angel. Castiel moves slightly, angling his face into the wind, and Dean can swear he sees a sense of longing and fearful dejection in the deep blue eyes for a moment before the angel closes them, apparently getting into the moment. His full, chapped lips part slightly, eyebrows twitching minutely together in distant focus, like he's trying to recapture a memory.

Flying, Dean realises.

"Dude, the road!" Sam's abrupt shout yanks at literally all the nerve endings in Dean's body, ripping him out of something he didn't realise was around him, and bringing him back to the reality, just in time to swerve in order to make it into a turn and avoid ploughing straight into a ditch running alongside the road. "What the hell, Dean?!" Sam stares at him with wide eyes, mildly freaked out, and Dean just growls.

"Calm down, nothing happened!" he snaps, shrugging. "Got caught up in thoughts, no big deal."

"Yeah, in your rear view mirror-"

"Shut up, Sam!"

Sam obeys, but he looks out the window smirking like the smug little bitch he is, and Dean doesn't like that one bit. He's not exactly sure what Sam is smirking about and what he was going to say about the rear view mirror, but something inside him, like an instinct, tells him to steer as far away from that subject as possible.

He risks another glance into the mirror, to check up on Cas who's suspiciously silent. Cas is just sitting there, very clearly knocked out of his reverie, mildly spooked, but doesn't appear panicked in the least. His large blue eyes are wide, hesitant and filled with light from the sun, and they are so impossibly blue and lucid with some cosmic clarity that Dean has to force himself to look away, only the barest of whispers in his mind telling him to watch the road.

They arrive, park and take a cart which Sam navigates while Dean controls the list, and Castiel follows them like a shadow. There's something about supply runs that rubs Dean the wrong way, and he's glad to wrap them up as quickly as possible, on general basis at least. Perhaps it's the memories of rushing after his father striding through the store and dumping necessities into the cart, Dean following as fast as he can, Sammy's hand in his as his little brother struggles to keep up. It immediately leads to memories of childhood in crappy motel rooms, holes in socks, cereal for dinner, putting Sammy to bed by stammering through dialogues in comic books as soon as Dean had barely learned to read. He had loved bringing Sammy up, raising his baby brother – it was and, in a way, always will be, his mission in life, his job and direction, a constant and a definition of a part of what Dean is. There are a lot of good memories, but sometimes it's just not enough.

Radically cutting off that train of thought, Dean looks at the list and works out a path through the store. He looks over his shoulder to make sure they haven't lost the angel, but Cas is following like he's tied to the cart with a string. Good. The last thing Dean wants is going to the lost-kids point and calling for a blue eyed, trench coated angel via speakers.

They go through the list methodically, pushing the cart down the aisles and bickering just occasionally. They load up the bags of salt, the bullets and painkillers, the washing machine stuff, a new mop for the kitchen, because the old one is getting almost bald, batteries and other shit like that, and make it to the food area. They buy beer, stuff for sandwiches, eggs, meat, tin cans containing everything from fish to fruit, and then coffee, tea, water and liquor, and also yogurt, tofu and other yoga shit for Sammy.

As to Cas, he seems to be taking Dean's advice to treat this as a learning experience very seriously. The dude is focused, eyes taking in every single detail of each aisle and all the people and their cart, and all the workings of all procedures. When handed a box with a frozen lasagne by Dean and told to go check the price with one of the scanners on the wall, he treats the mission with absolute solemnity, and Dean just has to chuckle.

"Hey, Cas, you want something?" he asks when the angel returns and deposits the box in the cart after declaring the price.

Cas looks up at Dean, large blue eyes blinking in surprise, and his head tips to the side a little as if he's surprised with the notion, the abstract concept of getting something for himself at a freaking _store_.

"I… don't require anything," Castiel replies, seeming a little insecure, almost spooked at the prospect, and Dean rolls his eyes impatiently.

"Dude – I know. I didn't ask if you _need_ something, I asked if you _want_ something. Yeah? We don't just get the stuff we need, sometimes we get things we want, just cause we want them."

Castiel nods attentively, doing his best – and frankly _pitiful_ – imitation of a comprehending face, complete with the pensive frown, slightly parted lips and completely not-the-right-wavelength look in his eyes. It's very, very clear that Dean didn't get the point across. He glances to Sammy in a vague hope for help (how low can he stoop for Cas…!), but the bitch just smirks smugly behind Cas' back, raising his hands in a don't-look-at-me gesture.

"Look, Cas, you're sick, why don't you cut yourself some slack? Go crazy – get yourself a burger or something," Dean suggests, nodding encouragingly.

"Thank you, Dean, but I'm perfectly content without any personal purchases," there's a small smile in the corners of Castiel's lips, very small, barely an echo, but as usually it has an overwhelming effect on his eyes, lighting them up and filling them with intensity of an expression bordering deceptively between contentment and cheekiness.

Dean shrugs, not knowing how long he's been looking into Castiel's eyes – not that he's been gazing or anything, of course – and nods at Sam to push the cart along.

"Whatever, suit yourself," he tells the angel. "Lemme know though if you change your mind. You know, it doesn't have to be food, we can get you a book or a movie or whatever – you know, to keep busy," he explains, trying to sound casual, but it's damn hard with an angel staring attentively with bottomless blue eyes, looking like he's carving Dean's words into his memory. Creepy.

"Thank you, Dean, I'll let you know if there's something I… _want_," Castiel pronounces the word carefully and pensively, like he's testing its meaning in a completely new, abstract concept referring to himself and his own feelings, and memorising it.

The word rolls off his tongue like he's tasting it and using it for the very first time, the sound thick and thorough in his mouth, eyes sharp with attention, voice deliberate, and a brush of hot and gripping weakness passes briefly through Dean's chest, making him skip a breath.

And the word and Castiel's voice suddenly make _Dean_ want something, a craving so abrupt and intense and _raw_ that it almost makes him lose his step, overwhelming him completely. The pang lasts just a short while, but it the remnants of it ebb very slowly, leaving him with an elusive, unnamed craving that lingers, lodged strong somewhere in the core of his system. It's like he wants something to drink or to eat or touch or do, but at the same time it's none of these things, and it just might start driving him crazy, so he tries not to think about it.

Well, fat chance. For some reason it gets worse when Cas looks at him.

* * *

Sam groans as he drops onto the sofa, legs sprawled on the floor, and he stares brainlessly into the blank TV screen for a few lethargic moments. He's exhausted after a run he went out for when they got back from the Wal-Mart, and he takes his time to just steady his breathing, all muscles relaxed, and he puts off showering for as long as he can, trying to ignore the clothes sticking to his sweaty skin, because he's too damn beat to move for at least another half an hour.

A few more moments pass before he realises something's missing – Cas is not on the sofa, which has become a more or less constant point of his residence. Since they've arrived at Bobby's, Cas spends most of his time on it, reading or watching TV.

Sam feels for the guy, he really does. He imagines it must really suck to suddenly become so absolutely grounded, Cas can't really go anywhere unless he walks, because he barely can even figure out how tickets and busses work. He still is a powerful angel of the lord, but cannot fly. He's completely… _passive_, Sam realises, and he flinches in compassion. There is some passiveness in Castiel's nature, but it's a controlling passiveness, one where Castiel withdraws and watches things as they happen, because he always can step in and take charge or at the very least become active again and change the events' course considerably. Now, deprived of his ability to relocate, Cas can literally just wait for things to come to him.

Cas is a friend, he's family by now, and Sam sure feels for him. He hopes they can all come up with something soon to help him, or that the three weeks are up quickly and Cas is back in shape.

There are footsteps stomping down the stairs, and Sam turns his head to see Dean dawdling down, rubbing an eye and yawning. Apparently, he took a nap while Sam was out.

"Dude… where's Cas?" are, of course, his first words when he sees Sam on the sofa.

"I don't know, Dean, I was out," Sam spells it out for his brother carefully, pointing out the obvious.

"Shit," Dean is instantly fully awake and marching off, presumably to find Bobby, while looking around the rooms he's passing through.

"Dude, relax!" Sam calls after him, half-laughing, because really – Dean's protectiveness of Cas is downright endearing.

He knows, of course, and he's known for a long time, too. Dean doesn't so much have 'a thing' for Cas, as he's actually completely in love with him. He's been observing his brother and the angel throughout all the course of their acquaintance, and he's seen the steady, progressive shifts that came one after another, leading further and further into the emergence of love as a natural result. 'Result' isn't really the right word, because sometimes Sam swears it feels like the love was there _first_, but he has no other term for it. The sacrifices, the small moments of laughter, the gazing.

All those tiny and great things sum up into that 'Profound Bond', as Castiel had one put it. Sam sometimes wonders if Castiel knows that he loves Dean more than just as his charge or whatever the hell Dean technically is supposed to be to Cas. Sam thinks he knows, but he's not sure. Maybe he knows but doesn't _understand_.

Just like Dean. Dean downright acts on his love for Castiel, does things because of it, but the bonehead doesn't have a _clue_ that he's in love with his angel. And frankly, Sam is humbled by this kind of love that spans between Dean and Castiel – it's a complete love, balancing between romantic, friendly and familial.

That, and the sexual tension – he doesn't even _want_ to think of all the eye-fucking. He's seeing enough of it on a daily basis.

Still, as amazing a thing as such a love is, Sam worries it might turn into a destructive disaster if it isn't realised soon. Now _that's_ not a cheery thought at all.

Dean doesn't bother to reply to his brother (_relax? Relax?!_ What the hell?! They've lost the flightless angel!), and he heads out to find Bobby, homing in on the study while peeking into a few rooms on the way – no sign of Cas.

Predictably, Bobby is indeed in his study, hunched over a pile of books, and seeing the amount of scripts, scrolls and volumes on his desk, all concerning angels and winged supernatural creatures, Dean kind of feels like a jerk for not doing much research himself. He makes a mental note to get on it as soon as he finds Cas.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"What is it, boy?" Bobby puts a finger on a passage to mark it, and looks up at Dean.

"Do you, uh – know where Cas is?"

"Feathers went out to play in the backyard.

_Play?_

"Uh, thanks," Dean leaves, suddenly prodded with a bad premonition.

"Could use some help with the research!" Bobby shouts after him, and Dean waves a loosely pacifying hand as he retreats.

"Yeah, I'll get right on it!"

It's not easy to locate Cas in the labyrinth of piled-up junkers that curls around Bobby's yard. Keeping quiet and moving slow, listening out for any noises that might help navigate him towards Cas, Dean for one fleeting, creepy moment feels like stalking a prey, and the association makes his stomach turn. _Hunting Cas_… no way. No fucking way, not ever. It feels the same like when Sam was on demon blood, and Bobby pointed out that one day Sam might become something they'd be normally compelled to kill.

Dean shakes off the nauseating feeling, and squints up into the blazing, summer sun. It works, the heat seeping into his face somehow washes away the sick thoughts, and he moves on, hearing some thumping and a whine of old metal creaking under pressure.

He looks around and up, because the sound distinctly comes from above, and he rounds another heap of cars. Around the corner, perched halfway up the next tower of junkers, is Cas, working his way up to the top, blue eyes focused intently on the goal upwards, jaw set persistently, and a sense of strategic concentration written all over his face.

"Uh, Cas?" Dean asks carefully.

"I continue to practise, Dean," explains the angel who's probably been aware of Dean's approaching presence ever since he left the house.

"I see. How's it going?"

"Satisfactorily," comes the short reply as Cas props his right foot on the frame of a missing window and hoists himself up, hands gripping at the roof of the topmost car.

Dean is now curious how he's gonna solve this, because there's no other step to find feet purchase on between the window of one car and the roof of the next, because the top car's windows still miraculously have glass in them. Which means Cas might as well spend some eternity stretched like that unless he decides to get down and tackle the stack of cars from another angle.

But Dean's long since learned that the angel is one stubborn son of a bitch, more so than he himself is, probably. So it shouldn't really come as a surprise that, after a few moments of lingering spread over the car sides like a frog, Cas begins to move. His whole front pressed up against the cars, he slowly inches sideways, his free foot skimming over the metal, seeking support, and Dean has an impression that his presence is one of the reasons why Cas won't give up. He's not gonna back down in front of witnesses.

Suddenly, he seems to find purchase in some dent in the metal, and he pushes up, just enough to flex his arms so that his elbows rest on the roof as well. And while that would also be a bit of a check-mate for a human, with feet dangling in the air and all, Dean watches as Castiel practically effortlessly pulls his own body up onto the flat surface. Right, angel strength. He sure wasn't kidding when he said his grace is 'otherwise intact'.

"Okay, nice," Dean gives a nod as Castiel glances down at him as he sits on the car roof. "But _this_ I cannot wait to see – how're you gonna get down?" he smirks.

Castiel's blue eyes shoot back into Dean's, sparkling and determined – challenge accepted. Apparently, if Dean thinks he's gonna watch Cas fumble around like a kitten who crawled up a tree and can't figure out how to get down, he's got another thing coming.

Cas deftly slides onto the hood of the car, tense and careful as the junker moans, tipping forward as the angel's weight disturbs the balance. Cas then displays some fucking show-off agility as he slides down the hood, twisting his body around mid-fall so that he's facing the hood, hands firmly gripping the bumper. And okay, Dean might gape a little, but _damn_…! The way Cas made that twist… well, the dude is pretty damn flexible…

A smug smirk is thrown his way as Castiel easily works his descent and soon lands before Dean, head tilted a little back, blue eyes narrowed and holding more of the smirk than his full lips do – that particular half-haughty expression that only Cas can pull off.

"Wow," Dean fails at nonchalance because his voice cracks – probably because of the heat, it's very, very hot today, especially here…

Castiel just looks at him for a moment longer before heading for another pile of cars.

Dean goes back into the house, fetches himself one of the books for research on angel wings, and comes back to keep an eye on Cas. He may be doing fine, but Dean prefers to be on the safe side. Besides, it's kind of nice to kick back and read in the sun, just glancing up at Cas every now and then.

Cas is hopping and climbing around the cars like a freaking ibex or something, getting bolder and bolder as he apparently masters his new balance. Dean flips through the book, leaning back leisurely against the windshield of a car he's sitting on the hood of, and occasionally closes his eyes, tilting his face up into the sun. Feels good to take a break.

At some point he opens his eyes a little drowsily when he realises that Cas' activity sounds have gone suspiciously quiet, and his gaze roams lazily over the high reaching piles of cars before him. Cas is on the top of one of the tallest ones, and he's carefully shuffling closer to the side-edge of the roof, eyes stuck on the opposite pile divided from his by a rather wide gap.

It takes a moment, but finally Dean registers what he's seeing.

Cas, taut, knees slightly flexed, rolling his shoulders a little like a tiger preparing to pounce, intense blue eyes determinedly fixed on the car pile roughly four metres ahead.

Dean has the reflex to scream, but before the impulse can travel from his brain into his vocal chords, Castiel leaps. He's in the air, soaring, arms outstretched as if to compensate for the wings that aren't there, and his trench coat billows slightly after him. He's _flying_ for one damn moment, carried further than any human would be in a jump without a start-up, but he's crudely miscalculated.

He catches onto the car roof with his arms, his torso slamming into the side, and he groans, feet instinctively seeking support, one of them finding purchase on a side view mirror, but the mirror breaks off quickly, and Cas plummets down.

Dean snaps out of his frozen stupor, scrambling off his own car, but Cas twists mid-fall again, and manages to land in a deep squat on the ground. His balance tips backwards a little, and he ends up with his ass in the dirt.

"Dammit, Cas!" Dean growls, reaching the angel and grabbing him by the arm, hauling him up. "What the hell?!"

Castiel has a focused, slightly confused look in his eyes, like he's thinking about something.

"It seems I've miscalculated the support my wings usually provide during jumps," he finally pronounces. "Although I rarely jump."

"Yeah, no shit," Dean huffs out, relieved to see the angel is alright.

His hand is still gripping Castiel's arm just below the shoulder, and he can feel the warmth of Cas' flesh seeping through the fabric into his curled fingers. It's a steadily growing sensation, it becomes more and more prominent in his mind, and he feels like it's beginning to block out all the other senses, except for sight which is filled with the blue of Castiel's eyes.

Dean is piercingly, acutely aware of the fiery point of physical contact between him and Castiel, and it's an awareness that's growing in strength, searing through his brain and coiling, until it releases an abrupt impulse that surges hotly through his system. It's a fevered, intense impulse to pull Castiel closer and proceed into something Unknown.

And it frightens the hell out of him.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed, I like how some parts turned out :)**

**Please review, seriously, those little balls of fluffy goodness keep me going :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay, I'm trying to balance the two stories,_ The Mechanics of the Sky_ and this one :)**

**I hope you're still enjoying this story, and I hope this chapter is enjoyable, too... I had a lot of fun writing it, I love delving into characters' heads, and I did a lot of that here :)**

**Enjoy, and please review :)**

* * *

The second night isn't much better from the first.

This time, Castiel decides to explore the roof, and the three hunters slumbering underneath it are awoken by some creaks, snaps and rustles. Dean is the one who wakes up first, quickly followed by Sam, and each of them instinctively reaches for a weapon. Sam ventures that it might be the marten that Bobby's been complaining about for a few years, but a loud thud made by something _decidedly heavier_ than a rodent puts that theory to rest.

That's also when Bobby wakes up.

The three hunters, armed with a weapon each, head quietly to the roof – or rather, Dean and Sam do, climbing out a high attic window, Bobby staying behind and grousing something about being too damned old for midnight acrobatics.

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean half-groans at the sight of a familiar silhouette balancing precariously but with extraordinary confidence on the narrow line of the rooftop. Huh. Until now, Dean hadn't really noticed how steep that roof is, how easy it could be for Cas to lose his footing and fall. He doesn't like that.

The angel looks a touch surprised, those impossible, large blue eyes blinking at Dean backed by Sam peering over his head and having some balance trouble, keeping one foot braced on the window frame.

"I'm sorry, have I woken you?" Castiel asks concernedly.

"No, Cas, we fucking climb roofs every Wednesday night," Dean grumbles, but the adrenaline is ebbing away from his system now. "The hell are _you_ doing here?"

"Oh. I… am attempting to further my balance practise," Castiel replies predictably. "I apologise. I'll stop now," his blue eyes are so full of remorse, his body seemingly curling a little in on itself like he's a kid that just scolded for doing something that was meant to be a marvellous surprise, and Dean – god help him – feels his heart clench.

He feels an urge that he can't precise for a moment, but it's got to do with Castiel, he wants to stay for a bit , walk those few steps separating him from the angel and just… sort of make sure everything is OK. As OK as it can be, because Cas is majorly out of his comfort zone, somewhat confused, and possibly in a motherfucking load of pain.

"Good, cause I'd like some sleep!" Bobby's muffled grumble comes from underneath the roof. "Get 'im down and go back to sleep, ya idjits," with that command, Bobby audibly vacates the attic, doubtlessly heading back to bed, muttering complaints under his breath.

Behind Dean, Sam yawns, and drops his gun into the attic through the window, before taking Dean's weapon as well and giving it the same treatment.

"Well, I'm going back to bed, too," he declares, and a small, bitchy smirk crosses his face, Dean's eyes narrowing suspiciously in response. "Don't stay up too long, you two," the smirk broadens as Sam cowardly ducks down into the attic, just as the sense of his last words registers with Dean.

Son of a bitch…

So what? So what if he wants to sit a bit with Cas? Make sure he's OK.? None of Sam's business! He's done the same for his pest of a brother whenever he had a nightmare, damn it! He can do something like that for Cas, too.

He looks at the angel. Perched close to the roof's edge, with a caught expression on his uncertain face, his black hair almost invisible in the night, he looks like a still-frame from a dream. But at the same time he's so very, very _Cas_ that Dean's lips give a small smile as he feels a pull towards him.

It's a natural sensation, almost soothingly familiar, this sense of placating gravity that Cas sometimes evokes in Dean, pulling him in, and Dean never actually hesitates. So now he strolls along the rooftop line, giving Cas a smile, the angel shifting awkwardly for a moment.

"You okay?" Dean asks, eyeing the distance that separates Cas from the edge – it's small, but not suicide-watch small.

"…It's… a relative term," Castiel fumbles with the strap of his trench coat, then drops it. "I suppose I mostly am," he elaborates and thus manages to make things even less clear. Classic Cas.

So Dean sits down on the narrow peak of the roof, stretching his legs out down the steep side ahead of him, and looks up at Cas invitingly. The angel is thoughtful for a moment, like he usually is, before he levelly drops down beside Dean, though his legs are curled up at the knees, feet braced against the shingles. He looks ahead, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, one hand loosely wrapped around the other's wrist, a slight expression of pensive worry touching his face, but there's a lot of peace in his eyes.

It's good.

Dean looks ahead too, relaxing and supporting himself with his hands on either side of his hips, and breathes.

The night is hot and sultry, the still air smells of summer – dry grass, dust baked on the walls by sunlight, dry earth and a tangy, intoxicating foretaste of elusive rain and something else, something that always lingers in a summer's night. Dean breathes deep, letting it linger on his palate and rush his blood a little, but without disrupting an odd sense of peace that hovers over him, and just as he fills his lungs up to the brim, a new, striking hint of fragrance brushes over the back of his throat. Enticing, indescribable and vaguely familiar in a half-exciting way of something rediscovered in a new light.

And Dean realises it's Cas. They're sitting close, with barely an inch or so of space between them, and Dean is comfortable with it, long since accustomed to Castiel's Space Invader routine. The pull he feels to Cas is humming in contentment of fulfilment, with just a small, minute undercurrent of wanting to be closer still, and Dean studies Cas' profile, the straight nose, the hair mussed above the forehead, the full, plush lips, and the thousand unreadable things in those ethereal eyes.

Castiel turns his head and looks at Dean, and Dean feels his breath catch. The indescribable clarity of all the thoughts in Castiel's gaze is outstanding, absolutely unearthly. His eyes are pure, their deep blue almost liquid with the lucidity, but it's a lucidity Dean can't read, like another language that shows something strikingly pure, and he can see it, but can't understand, can only have his breath taken away.

There is so much in Castiel's eyes, all of it bright and clear, hundreds of thousands of thoughts, expressions, ideas, some humanly unfathomable concepts too, Dean can see them, just a little deeper into the light of the angel's gaze. His eyes are flecked with subtle shifts in colour, but also with all those ideas, and with all the things Castiel has seen and can always see, and as Dean looks, he feels like he's taking a journey through them all, not understanding anything in his mind, but definitely feeling something with his soul. And he doesn't really understand that either, but it's alright.

And he can see the universe in Castiel's eyes, he can see galaxies and infinity. It's not a failed shot at poetry, it's absolute _truth_. Literal truth. In the impossible blue of the angel's eyes, he can see endless galaxies and eternal, cosmic light that holds the universe together. A dazzling reminder that Castiel is a being made of light and energy, older than the earth they walk, limitless, unabated, and completely everlasting.

He can smell that hint of scent again, brushing over his palate with promises and spice, and he feels the pull hum warmly, bringing him closer. Closer. Closer.

"Cas…" the name slips out of his mouth with a breath, unplanned. It makes him blink and feel slightly as if he's waking up. "Uh… you know that if there's something wrong, you can tell me. Or Sam or Bobby. You know that, right?" he makes sure, gaze digging into Castiel's eyes searchingly.

Castiel's face falls into an expression of guilt and worry.

How was that the wrong thing to say? How _the hell_ was that the wrong thing to say? Dean rakes his brains for an answer, trying to see where he went wrong… it seems that, even if he means well, he always manages to say the wrong thing to Cas.

The electric blue eyes shine worriedly in the night, and they look at Dean with sorrow, unhappy pensiveness and worry, like he's _regretting_ something. Responsively, Dean feels a sudden coil of unsettlement in his stomach, and it morphs into a surge of urgency, where he needs _something_, and he acts on that impulse, reaching out a hand and closing it around Castiel's wrist, trying to anchor him, even though he can't fly away.

Dean wants to anchor him here, to this moment, to comfort.

To himself.

"Cas?" he never wants him gone. Never again.

"I… I know, Dean."

Slowly, thoughtfully, Castiel places his free hand atop Dean's, a thrum of warmth flowing between them, and Dean stares for a moment, taking in Cas' hand – skin slightly paler than his own, slender fingers, but steady and levelled, assured in the strength that Castiel is as an angel. When he looks back up into Castiel's eyes again, the regret still lingers, and Dean knows he's not gonna learn what's bothering Cas, but there is also a flood of warm, vulnerable gratitude in the blue eyes.

"Thank you," Castiel adds. And those words never sounded more full and pointed and honest in Dean's ears before, from anyone.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm here, man. If you need me," there are so many things he wants to say, but he doesn't know _what_ they are. They're thoughts and sensations, and how the hell is he supposed to match them up with words? He can't, he never could.

But right now, Castiel's eyes tell him it doesn't matter.

The night smells hot and sultry, and he picks up the elusive tang of Cas' scent again. The pull hums, drawing him closer to the angel, and he feels good sitting beside him in silence, before they head back down the roof, into the house through the attic window. And when, an unimportant, undefined amount of time later, he goes back to bed, he's restless, like his blood coursing won't let him fall asleep. It's a strong but odd feeling, he _wants_ something, an overpowering craving for something that's just within reach.

It feels like wanting a drink, but so much more and also so much deeper buried. He closes his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep as he lies flat out on his back. A breeze wafts into the room, teasing his palate with the fragrance of summer night.

The craving increases, parching him dry somewhere deep in his chest, and Castiel's cosmic eyes flash in his mind for a lingering moment. And the craving just keeps increasing.

* * *

Sam is becoming increasingly certain that, at some point in childhood, Dean must have once harboured fantasies of becoming a doctor.

Cas is downright victimised by Dean's protective, mother hen tendencies, and Sam thinks his brother is lucky Cas has such a patient disposition, because otherwise Dean might have gotten himself smote. Dean spends most of his time having Castiel within line of sight, or at least within earshot, even when he's not interacting with him. He does help with the research on wings and angels, but his pace of going through a book is dramatically slow, because he keeps making sure if Cas has everything he needs.

Dean is always like that when someone from the family gets ill – he's about to make a nest for the sick person and then sit on them like a hen, and Sam means it only _a little_ figuratively. He's been on the receiving end of Dean's doctor aspirations plenty enough. Now, there are moments when he seriously thinks Dean's absolute dream is tucking Castiel into bed, putting a plastic thermometer into his mouth and then brewing him some chicken noodle soup.

Parallel to that though, there is something new in Dean's behaviour around Cas. When he's getting close to him, he seems to recall something that freaks him out a little and then proceeds to make him torn between jumping away or getting even closer to Cas.

After two years of witnessing denial dipped in oblivion and served with a side of head-up-the-ass, Sam is almost hesitant to hope that it all means that Dean's finally realised some of his feelings for Cas. But it all seems to point that way, so Sam tries to be very careful around those two, so as not to set anything off in the wrong direction. God knows Dean is perfectly capable of making an irreversible mess out of everything.

Sam's itching to meddle, but he knows he has to be careful. That, and he wants Cas to get better first, then worry about getting the two oblivious idiots together. (He should get a hobby…)

With a sigh, he puts away another book that has no information on angel wings and sickness, and he gathers the stack and heads to Bobby's study to exchange them for new reading material. It's been eight days since Cas has 'temporarily lost' his wings, and they still got nothing. There's not even a mention of such a condition in any of the books and scripts they're ploughing through, but Sam's not surprised – it's a strictly angel thing, and rare, going by what information Cas has reluctantly relinquished, so humans really have no cause to know anything about it.

"Hey… Anything?" he asks Bobby who's patiently going through another text of his own.

"No, nothin'… except for a hunt I had to turn down and pass on to somebody else," he looks up pointedly at Sam.

"Dean wouldn't go, Bobby, he wouldn't leave Cas alone, and he sure as hell would bring him along," Sam shrugs apologetically on his brother's behalf, but Bobby waves a dismissive hand.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumbles.

He's looking pensive and thoughtful, like always when he's about to say something that will dampen the mood but needs to be said anyway, and Sam stands, watching him, bracing himself. But before Bobby can get the words out, Castiel wanders through the corridor, passing by the open study door without even peering inside.

And that's another thing – over the past few days Cas has gotten antsy, for the lack of a better word. He roams the house and the yard, and there is a pent-up, repressed nervousness in his pace, his movements becoming twitchy, and he seems to be looking for something, for respite. Like an animal looking for a spot to lie down and heal, and not finding it, forced to go back and forth around the territory.

"And what's up with _that_?" Bobby now asks, dropping his voice a little as he jerks his head in the direction where Cas has just disappeared.

Sam shakes his head.

"I have no idea. It's like he's looking for a place to settle, but nothing does it for him," he tries his best to put his feelings about this into words.

"Well, pardon me to the princess if my house isn't a healing spa resort," Bobby grouses, but Sam knows he's worried about Castiel.

"There you are," Dean's voice sounds in the doorway, and Sam turns around to see his brother. Figures, he followed Cas and now lost him from sight. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sam shrugs.

"Yeah, what's going on?" Bobby asks at the same time. "What's up with Feathers, he's prowlin' around the house so much he's makin' _me_ itchy."

Dean frowns, looking at them in mild puzzlement, like they're missing something obvious.

"He's got cabin fever," he explains simply, like it's a perfectly clear thing, something they should have noticed ages ago.

"The hell do you mean cabin fever, boy," Bobby scoffs, leaning back in his chair. "He's been on two supply runs, keeps going around the backyard, you drove him to the forest like three times already, he went into town with you two, and I don't even _mention_ the rooftop crap… Just when did he have _time_ to get cabin fever?"

"Well, he's an angel, right?" Dean frowns. "He's had wings all his life, he can like put back a couple thousand miles in a friggin second, he can get anywhere anytime, snap his fingers and be on the other side of the globe, so yeah – cabin fever. Wherever he can go now, isn't far enough or fast enough, I think he's getting constrained," Dean rants, and then shrugs with the last sentence, attempting to leaven his attitude, but Sam saw more than clearly the worry and intensity of his interest in Cas' well-being.

"So what, you're tellin' me he's just got one big-ass territory span and now he got reduced?" Bobby asks incredulously, and Dean shrugs again.

"I guess something like that."

"Well, do something 'bout it, I want to get one full night's sleep if that's alright by you!" Bobby grumbles, shooing Dean out of the room.

Dean glances at him, a small spark gleaming in his eye as his lips twitch in an almost-smile, and Sam sees the look of gratitude that quickly flashes across his older brother's face before he leaves. Bobby knows that Dean wants to go after Cas and try to help him, but while he's a smothering care-giver, he simultaneously (and paradoxically) won't just come up and offer to talk to Cas about his comfort and offer help. Bobby's grumbled command gives him an excuse to do it, which is also precisely the reason Bobby has given in.

Bobby cares for his boys, he always has, and Sam is grateful. He's often felt more warmth, affection, loyalty and love to Bobby than to his own father, and he always relishes staying at Bobby's, even if it usually means trouble and bucking down on research and some extreme hunting. But it also means a day or two of break, some slower-flowing time and the gruff, grumbling presence giving him a sense of peace.

And now Bobby has extended his affections to include Castiel too, though he will never say it. He often quips and claims he likes Cas better 'than you two idjits', and it's not true, but it's his own way of counting Cas among 'his boys'. Castiel seems to know that, and he's grateful and honoured, Sam can see it in his friend's earnest eyes, but the angel doesn't know how to express that gratitude and sense of privilege he derives from Bobby's fondness.

But it's alright, because Bobby, who also doesn't express his feelings, can see it anyway. And it seems to work for both of them.

* * *

"You OK.?"

Castiel glances down at Dean. The Righteous Man is on the ground, peering up, squinting against the sun flooding his face as he peers up to the top of the car wreck tower that Castiel is standing on. He's been seeking high points lately, but no matter how high he climbs (and there aren't many great heights that the neighbourhood has to offer), it never feels quite enough, and merely a mongrel, pathetic ersatz of the heights he could achieve once. He could soar into the sky, beyond the oxygen blueness of this planet, into the space and in between the stars, till the conventional human terms of 'up' and 'down' have lost their meaning, and he wasn't soaring _up_ anymore, just _into_.

It is bothersome and, just like his frustrating necessity to stay in one place – this one house, one surroundings, one area – and it causes a sense of restlessness to overcome him more and more headily as of late.

But he is willing to put up with it, willing to give up the glory of flight, this hitherto innate part of his nature, if it means keeping Dean safe. The worse pain is the necessity of lying to Dean, hiding the truth from him and abusing his trust… Castiel's grace cracked and splintered a few nights ago, on the rooftop, when Dean issued an invitation for Castiel to share whatever ails him. It was an unusual willingness to open himself to somebody else, and it must have cost Dean much emotionally. And Castiel nearly fell apart from guilt.

Dean is relentless, looking up, struggling against the sun that beams into his green eyes, bringing out the dusty smattering of freckles, and Castiel looks at him, able to count every single one of them from the height he's at.

Dean.

The Righteous Man.

No – Dean. Simply Dean, and _so much_ as Dean. He is a free man and has proven it extraordinarily, breaking out of the seemingly impregnable cage of his predestined identity as the Righteous Man, and proving himself to be Dean. He is righteous, by all means, righteous and noble to the core of his soul – a beautiful, shining soul… Castiel remembers the vague, golden glimmer of it in Hell – tattered, dim and dying, but flickering on still, never relenting, small and abandoned, but _holding on_. He embraced it with his grace, curling reverently around it, and hummed a gentle song to soothe its torment. It went quiet in its pain, and trustingly, wholly sank into Castiel's grace. From that moment on, Castiel has never known a world without Dean.

He is righteous, but he is not the label of the Righteous Man that the angels keep on struggling to attach to him. He is good and noble, and does what he believes to be the right thing, usually at the cost of his own benefits and peace and also life. He will stand and fight for what he loves and believes right, and he will be stubborn and determined and plough on, even when told he is wrong.

_This_ is righteousness. _This_ is human righteousness – deep, fierce, raw, imperfect and broken and heart-wrenchingly prevailing. For angels to put their terms and definitions to humans is wrong, unfitting. An expectation of angelic righteousness from a human morphs into a twisted wrongness. Dean is the example of that. Dean overcame that. Dean remained human.

"Cas?"

There's a ring of concern in Dean's voice, and Castiel agilely descends from the tower of wrecked cars to stand before his…

Charge? Yes, in strict terms of technicality, but more than that in terms of personal angles of perception. Dean has grown into much more for him, on all levels. His grace sings with light when Dean is near, but it also glows with pain he's never experienced before, an ache corresponding with where his vessel's – no, his body's – heart is beating. He feels a yearning and an overwhelming relief, he feels happiness and he feels anguish of the last inches of distance. It seems the closer he gets to Dean, the more difficult and impassable the last units of distance become.

In Heaven, Castiel was the strategist. Other leaders turned to him for advice. He saw plans and agendas as clearly as though they were laid out bare before him, and he skilfully wove his own strings in between them.

He still is a strategist. He sees Dean's concern, a shift in his attitude that bodes a more opened offer of help, and he knows he can finally have what he wants. In small terms, of course, because in greater terms – well, he's not certain Dean is willing to give him what he wants _most_. And Castiel will be fine if Dean never gives it to him… he is fine taking what he is given, and it will always be enough.

"Hey, Cas," Dean waves a hand before his eyes, and Castiel tips his head to side, confused by the gesture. "You OK.?"

"I'm fine," he assures. Strategic. "I'm feeling better."

"You sure?" as predicted, Dean peers at him with doubt. "'cause you seem antsy to me. Can't sit still, huh?"

Slowly, Castiel nods in admittance.

"I get ya, man, I hate being sick, too. I once had my left hand broken, had to stay put for a week – drove me crazy, man!" he laughs a little at his memories, and Castiel's grace reaches out into the tingling sound, basking in it more than in any celestial light. "Anything I can do?"

This is it, the place where Castiel can ask, where Dean is most likely to agree. He wishes to train for combat, to ensure his balance doesn't fail him if it comes to a fight, and he has to take into account the possibility that it will come to it. He needs to retrieve the seal for Crowley, and he has thirteen days left. Time is shrinking, uncomfortably physical in its dimension now, and he knows he needs to set out for the seal soon.

He still isn't sure how he will justify his leave to the Winchesters.

To Dean.

But, one step at a time.

"I think some exercise would do me good," he professes, and he can see Dean growing suspicious. He almost feels proud in Dean's ability to sense a trap as soon as it begins being set up. "I wish to train, to make sure I can hold my balance in combat."

Dean makes a move and sound of protest, but Castiel steps in deftly.

"We have discussed it, Dean, I wish to be prepared in case a fight comes to us. I don't…" he trails off, an instinct against vulnerability cutting his words off, but he breaks through it, because Dean deserves at least some revelations, some truth, in a pathetic attempt at redemption for all the lies he's been fed. "I don't wish to be a liability," Castiel mutters, feeling an unexpected lurch of shame.

It seems to sink into the core of Dean's understanding. His eyes are slightly wide, the green lit up with sunlight and comprehension, both cognitive and emotional, and Castiel drinks in this sight, the gold specks flecking the green of Dean's irises, the warm sun touching his face, dancing among the freckles, and Castiel wishes to reach out and feel the skin of Dean's face under his fingertips.

It's new for him. All of his life, his grace, an all-encompassing sense, was enough for him to perceive the world, along with sight and hearing. His grace merges into all senses, whether he is within a vessel or out of it, and it has always been enough.

With Dean, it never is. He wishes for more, a deeper reaching, more thorough knowledge, he for the first time is confronted with a need for senses in a more human concept of the world. Cradling Dean's form in the embrace of his grace is not sufficient anymore, not on all the levels that he has come to want Dean on. He feels the need to _touch_, a purely human physicality, his grace, while so thorough, suddenly doesn't provide a strong enough sensation of touch. It feels as if he's holding Dean through a swath of cotton or liquid, never quite close enough. He knows, from the experience of touching items and humans when in his vessel, that touching Dean would be crisp, fresh and searing, and he yearns for it.

Because of Dean, he has come to feel the need to use three senses he's hitherto thought unneeded to him in human form – touch, smell… and taste.

He constantly wishes to be closer to Dean, to take in as much of his scent as he can, and even though as an angel he has infinitely sharper senses than humans, he never feels he's quite quenched his thirst for Dean's fresh, warm fragrance in which hints of sharpness dance in an entrancing allure.

And lastly, he wishes to taste. He wishes to feel the flavour of Dean's skin on his tongue, wishes to taste his lips and mouth. It's an intense craving that washes over him, leaving him wrought with want in the most unexpected and unpredicted moments, a sense of heat spreading across his body. Body, he has a body now.

The three senses thrum, deprived of satiation, and he craves, yearns, feverish.

Dean nods, pulling him only partially out of his emotions.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs, nodding again. "OK. OK., I'll train with you."

* * *

**This chapter was supposed to include Dean and Cas sparring, but I decided to cut it here. But don't worry, the sparring scene will be in the next chapter, and things will get hot for both boys ;)**

**Thanks so much for your reviews, I grin and beam each time I see one in my inbox :D**

**So well, 8x23 is coming up... I guess I'll see you all in therapy, huh?**


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